


Northside

by proval



Series: Southside Forever [3]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alcohol, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Drug Use, Gap Filler, Homophobia, Illegal Activities, Light Dom/sub, M/M, PTSD-like symptoms, Past Abuse, Rough Sex, S10E10, Season/Series 10, s10e09
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-06
Updated: 2020-07-06
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:27:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25110883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/proval/pseuds/proval
Summary: It’s better, in fact, much better that this fucker is so Northside. That he’s rich. That he still wants Mickey. That he drives a fucking Vespa. Because—who knew? Ian apparently doesn’t—Mickey doesn’t just have dirty clothes and homicidal urges, a fucked up family and prison in his blood. People might think he’s a dumb piece of Southside trash but there’s a premium on his type above Madison street. He wears nice clothes now, keeps his hair trim, has a goddamn security job, and these white-collar pricks, these trust-fund college bitches, want to bang him.
Relationships: Byron Koch/Mickey Milkovich, Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Series: Southside Forever [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1767688
Comments: 28
Kudos: 205





	Northside

“Mickey, where are you going?” 

Mickey’s trying hard not to glance over at Ian’s red rimmed eyes and the slowly forming bruise around them. He already has to hear the occasional grunts of pain coming from the passenger seat. It took them twenty-five hellish minutes to get back to the car. 

“The fuck do you think I’m going?” 

“Turn around.” Ian reaches over for the wheel and Mickey slaps his hand away. “I have fucking EMT training. I can splint this at home.”

“Fuck you, Gallagher. You need to get that shit x-rayed.” 

“With what fucking money? I don’t have any.”

Mickey hits the steering wheel. “I’m gonna fucking pay!” 

That gets Ian to shut the fuck up for a moment. Mickey can feel Ian’s eyes glued to the side of his face, but he won’t look at him. Mickey slams down on the horn at some jeep that slides into his lane instead.

“Use your blinker, you piece of shit.” 

Ian starts again, a bit quieter but still as firm, glancing between Mickey and the windscreen. “You don’t have the money either.”

“Look.” Mickey wets his lips. “I got some cash.” 

_I can get some cash_ would have been more true, and Mickey can’t stop his eyes flicking over to where Ian’s stewing beside him to check how his slight lie landed. Immediately, Mickey wishes he didn’t look. His nose tingles again and he concentrates hard on swallowing back more tears. 

“You’re on parole Mick.” 

“I fucking know that.” He takes a left.

“Thought we agreed to stop doing risky shit.” 

“You mean like murder someone?” 

That’s met with silence from Ian. Just the harsh sound of the wind and the traffic. They’re not far from the hospital and Mickey racks his memory for whether he’s got enough money for the meter. He doubts that not being able to pay for parking will persuade Ian that Mickey’s good to cover his treatment.

It makes sense to drop Ian by the door anyway.

“You leaving me here?” Ian asks, quiet, once Mickey stops. 

Mickey can’t help looking at him again. 

“I’ll see you in the waiting room.”

He hits the gas hard once Ian’s out the door. Mickey’s not going to watch him hobble to the entrance.

Once he’s parked, he shoots Larry a quick message.

 _Me and Ian had a fight. I need a new place to stay._

Ian’s not in the car anymore so Mickey can let the tears fall. 

*

Mickey’s pretty sure his eyes are about to bore holes into the head of the old woman with the wired-up jaw sat opposite. 

“How’d he break his leg, Mick?” 

Lip’s voice is quiet on the phone. 

Mickey takes a deep breath in and squeezes his eyes shut. 

“We had a fight.” 

Lip’s response is immediate, louder. “You break his leg?” 

Mickey feels the air rush from him. He opens his eyes again. “I hit him. He fell down the stairs outside City Hall.” 

There’s a long pause. “You hit him.”

“Yeah.” Mickey folds his bottom lip into his mouth, almost says _that pussy can’t take a fucking punch_. It gets lost somewhere between his mind and his mouth. He falls further down in his seat. “I know I fucked up.” 

“Yeah. Ian said that too.” 

Mickey blinks, sits up.

“What?”

The woman with the wired-up jaw glances up at him over her magazine. 

“He rang me like ten minutes ago from outside radiography.” 

“You couldn’ta fucking led with that?” 

“Just checking your stories match up.” 

“Oh _great_ , thanks. So we pass the test, detective?”

Lip scoffs. “Well I’m not going to nominate you for relationship of the year.”

That seems more than reasonable so Mickey lets it hang. His mind reverses back through his and Lip’s conversation. 

“He say I fucked up or he fucked up?”

“He said that he fucked up but if you want my opinion I think you both fucked up.” Mickey can hear a sort of twisted smile in Lip’s voice. “But at least neither of you killed anyone so I guess that’s a plus.”

“Look, man,” Mickey doesn’t have the energy to be mad at Lip. He’s not mad at Lip. “Can you come get him or not?”

Lip sighs. “Yeah, Mickey. I’m on my way. You get the fuck out of there.”

Mickey doesn’t need to be told twice.

*

“That pussy can’t take a fucking punch.” Mickey takes a hefty swig of beer. “The fuck was up with his center of gravity?” 

“Maybe he wasn’t expecting you to hit him, Mick.” Sandy shrugs. She’s leaning back in the booth, tonging at her lip, just above the piercing. 

Mickey scrunches up his face and Sandy shrugs again.

Sandy’s like GHB. She chills Mickey the fuck out. He was ready to kill one of the hipster patrons of this bar before she slid opposite, handed Mickey a beer, and put her feet up on the fake leather.

“It’s probably a good thing you didn’t get hitched. Your dad’s still going on about the holy bond between Milkovich men and vaginas. I think that means women? But it’s pretty fucking transphobic.” Mickey blinks at her and Sandy takes a casual swig of beer. “As well as the other shit. About how if you marry a guy he’s going to beat out your brains with a blunt instrument.”

Mickey swallows, met with the faint sting of his tooth again. _I will bludgeon you to death in your sleep_ reverberates around his head.

“You think he fucking meant that?”

Sandy gives him a level look, her head tilted to one side. “Come on, Mickey.”

Yeah. His dad fucking meant that. Of course, he fucking meant that. Something drops away. Some tension in his stomach. It’s replaced by the tired, hunted feeling he’s always known. As much as Mickey feels like a pussy for even asking, it’s a relief to remember this, to get back here. As much as you know it’s going to happen, however many times you’ve been pistol whipped before, it’s still a surprise, a cold shock, when the gun hits the side of your face. 

“Fuck him.”

He wants a smoke but his voice comes out light and easy. 

Sandy laughs, the kind of laugh that sinks into his bones, loosens his body, like GHB again, soothing, and Mickey checks his phone. Gallagher hasn’t called. There’s a message from Larry he doesn’t bother to read, and a few from Lip.

 _Doesn’t need surgery_

_So I guess you can cancel the bank heist_

_Unless you want to do it anyway?_

“Oh, thank _fuck_.” Mickey shoots the phone across the table for Sandy to see. “So it’s—what?—still gonna be like a couple grand. How much we getting for moving that shit last night again?” 

“A couple hundred bucks?” Sandy rests the back of her head on her hand, the corner of her mouth jerking up. “Just about enough to cover these beers.”

Mickey shreds the last bit of the label off his. The drinks probably didn’t cost Sandy that much more than ten dollars, but he takes her point.

“Why d’you bring me to a place where everyone looks like they jack off over homemade wheatloaf by the way?”

Again, Mickey takes her point. “Look, I’m not a fucking expert on where to get two for one shots and blowjobs in Boystown.”

“Really?” Sandy sends him another grin. “Coulda fooled me.” 

“Yeah, you’re right. They let us out of the can on the regular to do poppers and get bent over on North Clark.”

“Oh yeah? Sounds like the BOP’s finally come up with a good furlough scheme.”

Mickey does smile at that. He reaches over to get his phone back. Still no new calls or messages from Ian. He turns it on silent and puts it in his pocket. He’s not going to check again. “You want to take out a mortgage and get me another beer, chuckles? Fuck, pawn your jewelry and get us some shots too.”

Sandy raises an eyebrow at him but springs up anyway. “Oh yeah, the Milkovich family jewels. Priceless heirlooms.”

Mickey flips her off as she disappears to the bar. 

Alone with himself, he presses the tips of his fingers into his eyes. 

He had really let himself believe it, huh. Just for that moment. Just to have his heart ripped out of his chest, get kicked at the wall, and slowly slide down into the trashcan like Bart’s in that episode of _The Simpsons_. Again. A-fucking-gain. 

He clenches his jaw and tosses the image away. 

“Ey, beard oil!” He calls out at a guy on his own at the next table, “you want a hummer?” 

The guy raises his eyebrows, taken aback. “I’m in a monogamous relationship, dude.” 

“So that mean you can’t put your cock in another guy’s mouth?” 

“Generally, yeah.” 

“Alright, well, if he asks you to marry him, do yourself a favor and tell him to go fuck himself before he leaves you with your dick in your hand in City Hall.” 

The guy’s face relaxes at that. “Sorry man. That’s really got to suck.” 

Yeah. 

It fucking sucks. 

* 

It sucks alright. It’s three? four? a.m. and Mickey’s pretty fucked up. He’s already lost Sandy, thrown up on the sidewalk, got turned down by a couple of twinks, rejected some free molly because of goddamn parole, and almost fell down some stairs and broke his own fucking leg.

The club’s closing and he doesn’t know where the fuck to go. Can’t go to the Gallagher house. Can’t go to his dad’s. He didn’t try very hard to pick up so wont be sleeping in some stranger’s bed.

His whirling mind somehow remembers that he’s got an unread reply from Larry and Larry might’ve sorted something out.

With effort, he digs his phone out of his pocket, unearthing his smokes on the way. 

He concentrates hard on putting the last cigarette in his mouth and lighting up before turning back to the phone.

He’s got a shit ton of messages and missed calls from Ian.

 _The fuck are you Mickey?_

_Mickey, what the fuck?_

_So I take it you’re not coming home tonight_

_You with Terry again?_

_Fuck you Mickey. Just fucking reply. I’m worried about you._

_You got a PO meeting tomorrow Mickey_

_DON’T DO ANY FUCKING COKE_

_Can we just talk?_

_Real fucking mature by the way Mick_

There’s no _sorry_. There’s no _I want to marry you_. Or _I love you and I trust you_ or whatever bullshit Gallagher fed him before. Mickey’s just some dumb Milkovich trash, right. A dumb piece of shit who thinks murdering his PO’s a great idea. Who Gallagher has to constantly monitor to make sure he doesn’t do the next fucked up thing. 

The last missed call from Ian is from fifteen minutes ago. 

Before Mickey can stop himself he’s hitting the dial button. 

“Mickey?” It’s sleepy. Ian’s probably fighting against his antipsychotic. Mickey hopes he’s remembered to take it. 

“Yeah, what up, Gallagher?” 

“Where are you?” 

“Don’t worry about me, bro.” It comes out slurred. “Still rolling from some hardcore chemsex, you know, getting rammed really deep while slamming meth but I gotta say, it was fucking… fucking… romantic. You could even call it beauti—‘’

“Mickey, _what_?” Ian’s voice rises. He sounds irritated but like he’s not falling for Mickey’s shit. “Where the fuck are you? How much you had to drink?”

“Nah I’m fine.” Mickey hiccups. His head’s really starting to hurt. His smoke’s run down to the end, burning his fingers. He chucks it. “My voice just sore from screaming and deep throating. But he’s… he’s got really pretty eyes, you know? Think he might like me. Maybe he’ll love and trust—”

“Mick, I’m coming to get you. I’m just getting in the car. Where are you?” 

Despite himself, Mickey turns to check the name of the club. He stops before he blurts it out. “You can’t drive, Gallagher, you got a fucked up leg.”

“I’ll manage.” Ian sounds pissed. “Where the fuck are you?” 

Mickey leans back against the wall and squeezes his eyes shut, his vision’s gone blurry. “Think it’s called Lisboa.”

“Be there soon.”

Mickey slides down the wall and onto the floor once Ian’s hung up, pissed off at himself for telling Ian where he is but also not seeing many other options. Unless he could get hold of Sandy? But she disappeared hours ago. Oh shit, Larry! He was supposed to be checking what Larry said. Head swimming, he looks down at his phone again, opens the message. 

_I’m really sorry to hear that Mr Milkovich, you piece of Southside trash._ Wait what? _No matter what you do, Ian will never love you as much as you love him, besides it can take up to a week for the system to find alternative accommodation._ Mickey’s eyes are shutting. _Are you able to stay with family or friends in the interim? Maybe your psychotic Nazi father who wants to bludgeon you to death in your sleep? Of course, I’ll take into account your particularly fucked up situation with switching residence as your PO. Coincidentally, what made you think that you could get married to a boy that you love? What made you believe that marrying someone you love was something you were allowed to have? You’ll need to stay within the city limits otherwise you’ll have to change POs and because you could never really leave him, you little bitch. Of course you need to stay in the state of Illinois and the state of constant fear as a condition of your parole. We can talk in more detail tomorrow._

The phone is melting into Mickey’s hand, warm and sharp, turning into something else, something soft and alive maybe. Mickey’s not looking at it anymore because he’s on the top of a tall staircase and the step is wobbling. He grips the thing in his hand to his chest. He knows if he falls he’ll turn into something, something he used to be—but he’s not supposed to be that anymore. He’s grown since then. He’s different now, and he… The step is shaking, quivering underneath him, and so is the thing he’s cradling to his chest. It’s shivering. 

He has to take care of it. He was meant to take care of it. He’s not supposed to hurt it. 

How did it get so cold? How did it get so scared? He holds tighter, trying to warm it up, almost tripping and falling down the stairs again in the process. 

It’s still shivering, despite Mickey’s efforts. He presses his face to it. Shushes it. 

Someone’s calling him from the bottom of the stairs. Yelling something. 

_I just want to know how you feel, you know._

The stairs whir, they clack, they start to move, fast, like an escalator going down and Mickey’s legs crisscross beneath him trying to keep perched at the top. But he can’t. He’s _shown_ him. He’s shown him so many times. He stumbles and the thing in his hands shivers and he’s missed the step, and the voice is still calling him. _Mick. Mickey._ His legs buckle under him. He’s going to fall— 

“Mickey.” Ian shakes him. “Mick.” 

Mickey stirs, opens his eyes. It’s a cold early light. He’s on his ass on the street and Ian’s standing over him, staring at him, mouth a line, black eye, awkwardly bent over with a cast. Mickey breathes. “Fuck.” 

“Yeah, fuck. Can you get up?” 

“Yeah, gimme a sec.” Mickey hauls himself to his feet. The liquid in his stomach swishes around as he does. He ends up leaning on Ian slightly, even though Ian has crutches. 

He lets go as soon as he’s got his footing. Follows Ian over to the car, cracking his neck on the way. 

Once he’s in the passenger seat, he presses the heels of his hands in his eyes. He’s still a bit drunk. 

Ian turns on the ignition, steps down on the gas with his good foot. 

“Fun night?” Ian asks, glancing at Mickey with hard eyes. 

“Yeah, like I said.” Mickey can’t think up as vivid a picture as he had earlier. “Banging this guy, nonstop party.” 

Ian scoffs, rolls his eyes. “OK.”

That’s all he says, focusing on the road now. Mickey glances at his face. Ian’s tired. He was at the hospital until late last night and now he’s here getting Mickey. And Mickey’s hit with a wave of guilt, again, that this shit is fucking with Ian’s schedule. But Ian could at least try to be a bit more jealous. Or does he really see through Mickey that easily?

Maybe he doesn’t believe Mickey could get a guy that fast. Or that he would want to. Well fuck him. Mickey could fucking do that if he really wanted. And why the fuck wouldn’t he?

The trip back is mostly silent. By the time Ian parks up the air between them is fizzing. There’s a fuck load of ramped up tension and not the good kind. Reminds Mickey of being back inside.

The car’s stopped but neither of them are leaving it. Ian stares at him, says nothing. Eventually, Mickey caves and looks back at him.

Ian’s eyes jolt him. Make his heart hammer and his chest ache. Mickey swallows the hurt down, reaches for the door handle. “Thanks for ride, homie.”

“Seriously Mick?” 

Mickey drags his head back to look at Ian. It’s so hard to look at him. 

“You don’t want to talk to me right now, fine. But we gotta fucking talk, Mickey.” 

“Yeah, good luck with that, man. You let me sleep on the couch?” 

Ian squints at him. “If that’s what you want—”

“Great.” Mickey climbs out the car. At least he might get a bit more sleep before he’s got to see Larry. “Sweet dreams, bro.”

*

“So, in light of your housing situation, I’ve persuaded Old Army to give you a few days off before you need to return.”

“Can you cancel that time off shit? I need the fucking cash.” 

“You struggling, Mr Milkovich?”

Larry doesn’t look his way, apparently not fussed that Mickey’s not going to bother answering his dumbfuck question. Larry’s been trying to get his computer to stop running this weird ass screensaver of moving through a starfield. Mickey doesn’t know much about computers but even he knows it looks like it’s from about twenty years ago. Aside from the fact it’s making his headache worse, he wonders if Larry likes to play at being in _Star Trek_ when he’s not trying to suck his parolees’ dicks. (Metaphorically, thank fuck). Larry just carries on ramming his hands down on the keyboard.

“You know they pay holiday? You’ll still get your—oh hang on.” Larry picks up the mouse and pounds it down on the desk several times. 

It looks like they’re moving slightly more slowly through outer space now.

“Maybe you should just try turning it off, man?”

“No, no.” Larry waves him away and starts hitting random keys again. “How soon do you need money? They might consider giving you an advance.” 

Jesus. It’s a shame Larry’s not looking at him because Mickey’s pretty sure he’s making some pretty good _are you fucking serious?_ faces.

“I’m sorry about the delays regarding the accommodation. I’m coming against some unnecessary bureaucracy. Are you sure you want to move out? Have you spoken to your partner at all after your altercation?”

“Oh yeah he’d fucking like that.” Mickey swipes his thumb under his lip, surprising himself again by how much he _wants_ to rant about this. “He thinks I’m the one being unreasonable which is fucked up considering he’s the piece of shit who only fucking asked me to get hitched because he thought I’d committed first degree murder. Like he’s fine with being my husband if it means I don’t go down for life but otherwise I can just go jerk off into my marriage license application. Yeah well, fuck him and his nine-inch cock. Like I can’t find someone else to give it to me on the regular.”

Mickey breathes in sharply, glancing away from the back of Larry’s head. Larry’s still now. He’s stopped shaking the mouse in the air. “So… you think you’re ready to move on?”

Mickey’s breath catches.

And it’s then that Larry glances over his shoulder at him. Sees something in Mickey’s face that makes him turn all the way around. 

“He doesn’t…” Mickey exhales. “He just says all this shit and then he wont commit.”

“You feel like he’s pulling away?” 

“No. He doesn’t want to leave. It’s more like... I need _more_ from him. And I hate feeling like this needy fucking—” Mickey squeezes his eyes shut. Goddamn it Larry.

Like he’s not allowed to want too much, to care as much as he does.

_Fuck me for giving a shit, you prick._

When Mickey opens his eyes again, Larry’s gazing at him. Then the screen behind his PO shifts into warp speed.

Mickey rubs a hand down his face. “Think it’s working again, Mr. Sulu.” 

*

“You like this song?”

The guy’s even smaller than Mickey is and he sounds Northside as fuck but he has red hair so Mickey nods. Mickey’s sitting in the same booth he’d been in with Sandy the night before, but tonight the whole place is full and there’s some boring ass live music. 

“Me too.” The redhead smiles. “I mean, the original is better, of course, but the string arrangement in this cover is off the chain. Also sure, the lyrics have a pretty neoliberal individualist bent but the melody bangs.”

Mickey lets the words go through one ear and out the other, holds the guy’s gaze, takes a sip of beer and sucks hard at his bottom lip, mopping up the flavor. He knows how to do this.

The guy sits down in the tight space opposite him. He’s looking at Mickey’s lips. “I’m Byron.” 

_The fuck kinda name is that?_

“You want to get out of here, Byron?” 

Byron’s eyes widen. “Like to hook up?” 

Mickey raises his eyebrows. “No, to adopt a puppy.” 

“Oh, sure, I uh… My friend lives round the corner. We could go there?” 

Mickey blinks at him. “You want to take me there?” 

The truth is Mickey’s exhausted. He really needs some sleep. He got about two hours last night—nowhere near enough to sleep off his hangover and this shitty music is not helping with that either. 

Byron’s eyes glance down at Mickey’s body, and settle, hesitantly, on his “fuck” knuckles. Mickey pushes away all the sticky feelings, the slight nausea that’s probably just too much alcohol in his system anyway. There’s something else, louder, much more satisfying, twisting through his gut. Vindication. No. _Revenge._ He wants to pick Byron up by the collar of his floral shirt and present him to Ian. Strap Ian down and make him watch Mickey bang his way through the entirety of the Northside. 

“Yeah.” Byron breathes. 

“Great.” Mickey starts to get up. 

“You want to, uh, listen to the rest of the set first?”

“Fuck no. Let’s get out of here.”

“Oh, yeah. Of course. OK.”

*

They kind of bang. It’s a mutual handjob thing, which Mickey guesses is banging, and Mickey’s impressed with himself that he didn’t need to go finish off in the bathroom, and he shoves Byron off and lets the dopamine from the orgasm send him to sleep. Byron’s friend’s bed is so soft, all white sheets like its made out of clouds, and in his dreams it’s not Byron’s hand, it’s Ian’s bigger one tugging at his cock, holding thick and firm, milking him, and Ian’s saying _You know that I love you_ and Mickey’s heart is hammering out _I know. I know. I know._

*

It’s better, in fact, much better that this fucker is so Northside. That he’s rich. That he still wants Mickey. That he drives a fucking Vespa. Because—who knew? Ian apparently doesn’t—Mickey doesn’t just have dirty clothes and homicidal urges, a fucked up family and prison in his blood. People might think he’s a dumb piece of Southside trash but there’s a premium on his type above Madison street. He wears nice clothes now, keeps his hair trim, has a goddamn security job, and these white-collar pricks, these trust-fund college bitches, want to bang him. 

“You’re a top now?” 

“Vers. Who knew?” 

He slides past Ian, through the front door, and up the stairs. He was hoping that would piss Gallagher off but he sounded more puzzled than jealous. Irritated, maybe. He knows Mickey loves it when Ian gives it to him deep and hard. He knows Mickey really wants to get fucked. Wants to feel full again. Spent all that time apart in the joint and now they’re outside still apart, still not banging. 

Ian hobbles through the doorway as Mickey’s packing up shit. Feels like he was just unpacking it. 

Ian tries to be casual about Byron but Mickey’s even fucking better at that game, tossing him some fresh bullshit to decipher.

“Oh, yeah, no. I’m catching.” Not that Ian ever falls for Mickey’s shit. 

Mickey picks up his black jacket from the floor. “Think he’s rich too. Last name’s Koch. Sounds kind of familiar.” 

That earns him a colossal eye roll from Ian. Mickey knows about the Kochs, knows that they make their billions from fucking over poor people, but Ian thinks he’s dumb as fuck right? Might as well play the role. 

“He’s getting a PhD thing. I think he’s supposed to be a professor of some language from a place called Britain.” 

“What you mean English?” 

“Ah yeah probably. Couldn’t really talk with my cock in his mouth.” 

Mickey sends him a grin, bypasses another of Ian’s eye rolls to grab some shirts. 

“OK. About the other day—”

“It’s cool.” 

“No, it’s not that I don’t want to get married Mickey. It’s just I want to take a little time, make sure we’re both ready, you know.” 

“You did us both a favor, alright?” It’s still hard to look at him. Mickey kind of wants Ian to throw the crutches away and pin him against the wall. Turn him round and pull down his pants. Fuck him, or even fuck him up. Make Mickey stay. He keeps his gaze down. Finds the kind of words Ian throws around. “Because I’m in love with Byron.” 

“In love?” Ian’s voice raises. And maybe that worked a little.

“Moving in with him.” _Come on, Gallagher, don’t let me go._

“When?” It’s the same tone. 

“What dyou mean when? Now.” _Grab me by the hips, you pussy._

“Thought you only knew each other a couple of days.” 

“Met last night but,” Mickey chances another glance, heart hammering, quickly looking away again, “When you know, you know. You know?” 

Mickey takes his bag of shit out of there. 

*

They ride back up to Byron’s place and Mickey tosses the bag on the floor, takes in the space. 

It’s so fucking clean. Open plan. A kitchen with shiny surfaces. Stacks of new books. Old fashioned lamps and weird fucking poodle ornaments. 

Once Mickey’s claimed the bed and Byron’s stopped staring at him like he’s got two heads, he lights a smoke. Byron doesn’t dare say shit about it. 

“So who was that, honey? At your place?” 

“My place? Thought we decided I’m staying here.” 

“What?!… Uh, I guess you…?”

“Great.” Mickey takes a drag of the smoke, inhaling too fast. “Just my fucking ex. Ian.” 

He lays back and stares at the ceiling. It’s got this weird pattern on it that spins with Mickey’s head. Byron puts some boring music on. Mickey’s mouth tries to form the word _ex_ again and fails. 

“You two broke up recently?” 

“Kinda.” 

“Were you together long?” 

“On and off.” Mickey assents, even though the past tense doesn’t make any sense. “Last stint since I joined him in the can earlier this year. Fucking turned myself in for that prick.” 

“So you… just got out of prison?”

“Yeah, shit, that reminds me, I gotta tell my parole officer I’m staying with you.” Mickey glances over at Byron. He’s staring at Mickey again, open mouthed. “Man, you saw the knuckle tats. You knew what you getting into.” 

“Um, OK. You want some tea?” Byron heads towards the kitchen, and Mickey fishes his phone out of his pocket to text Larry. There’s still a series of messages from Ian he’s not opened yet. 

“Thanks Barry. Oh, by the way, you give me a couple grand? Gotta pay Ian’s medical bills. Kinda broke his leg.” 

Byron drops a mug. 

Mickey knows what Byron thinks about him, and he really doesn’t give a shit, but for some reason he doesn’t want to rob the guy unless he gets desperate. He shoots a message to Larry, then one to Sandy, then one to Colin and Jamie.

_Need cash. Got anything you want to move?_

He watches as a speech bubble with a “…” in it appears. He quickly sends a second message.

_That dad’s not in on_

The speech bubble disappears. 

Mickey lies there, tracing the skull tattoo on his arm, and cracks his fuck u-up knuckles. And then there’s the one on his chest too. He brushes his fingertips over it through his shirt. All of them, permanently, under his skin. 

All those things: dumb, violent, criminal, fucked up. They’re kind of true. At least that’s what he’s been branded by the system, and it’s a role he’s used to playing. But he knows that’s not all he is. But he is reckless and angry and scared and he does fuck up all the time, goes back to places he never thought he would. 

But he knows, he knows from somewhere deep inside, that Ian doesn’t think of him like that. Ian sees more than that in him. Mickey’s been letting his mind jump, like it did in the joint, away from this knowledge, this bone knowledge, this thing that’s so obvious and real. Ian knows him better than anyone, and Mickey’s going to go back to him, of course, eventually, because Ian doesn’t mind all the fucked up things about him. Loves him for them, in fact. Just maybe not enough to marry him. 

And it hurt, that’s all, when Ian didn’t sign the paper. It just hurt. 

*

Ian’s got a thin jacket over his green plaid shirt when he comes round. The one that brings out the color in his eyes and his hair. He only knows the address because Mickey texted it to him, but Mickey makes a show of being surprised Ian’s shown up anyway, slapping Byron’s ass, that kind of thing. 

Ian’s eyes are narrowed when Mickey turns back round. Mickey grins at him. 

“Looks like things are going well between you two.”

“Yeah. Love boat up there. Could not be happier.” Mickey’s pretty sure his expression is failing him now. Takes a lot of fucking effort to keep this shit up. 

“Here.” 

Ian holds out his hand, and for a second Mickey thinks maybe he doesn’t have to keep it up anymore. Maybe this is it.

But it’s not.

That night Mickey doesn’t bang Byron. He lies on his bed, smoking, ignoring Byron’s uneasy glances from the floor.

It’s weird how it made him cold, made him shut the door in Gallagher’s face, realizing with stone certainty what he already really knew, that Ian does love him enough, whatever enough is. Shouldn’t that reassure him, chill him out, fill him with joy, even? No. Because now he thinks about it, it’s been obvious all along. 

And yeah, sure, part of Mickey feels for Ian, and it’s a raw, helpless feeling. The kind of feeling that makes Mickey want to run down the stairs and run home and hold him in his arms. That Ian’s insecurity runs so deep, that the Gallagher self-sabotage bullshit fucks him up so much, that he thinks he’s unlovable, because of his disorder, yeah sure, but also because of how Ian grew up, because of Frank and fucking Monica. Yeah. That shit hurts. And she’s dead now and Ian _loved_ her. She can’t come back and love him like he always wanted her to. Mickey knows Ian would do anything to get that devotion back from her, that steady devotion, that endless devotion, that Mickey knows so well, and that Ian gave to his mom too.

 _Jesus Christ, Ian._

Another part of Mickey, a growing part, a fiercer part, is just fucking angry. Mickey gave him that. Mickey gives him that. And frankly, it’s an insult, it’s a fucking kick in the teeth, that Ian can’t see that. That he won’t see it or that he refuses to see it or more fucking likely he sees it but doesn’t believe he deserves it. At least Milkoviches know how to cling onto a good thing with their grubby little hands when it’s there.

And yeah, OK, Mickey gets it. He’s been there too, doubting, letting his mind jump. 

It doesn’t have to be marriage but Mickey hopes it is, because he wants to be shown off, because fuck his dad, and because Mickey wants to have all the good shit with Ian. But no, it doesn’t have to be marriage if Ian can’t do marriage, but Ian needs to show him something, some fucking sign that he gets it, some acknowledgement of that, some goddamn commitment that’s not that fucking promise ring he pulled out from under his shirt. That green shirt that Mickey loves. And when Ian sorts his shit out, Mickey will go back to him. Hopefully that’ll be sooner rather than later. This Northside place is starting to wig him the fuck out. 

*

“Can’t believe that bitch thinks it’s OK to fucking cheat on me.”

“Aren’t you banging this skinny Ed Sheeran?” Colin tries a pin number on the iPhone in his hand. He’s leaning forward over a box of them, looking completely out of place in Byron’s apartment, although he seems a little less high than usual. “Man, I miss Iggs. He’d know how to move these.”

“It’s not the same thing. He knows I’m just fucking with him.” Mickey stops pacing to grab a cell phone too. It’s locked. “You heard from him recently?” 

“What, Gallagher?” 

“No shithead. Iggy.”

Colin scratches his nose. “Yeah. His sentence got extended.” 

“The fuck?”

“Dad told him to kneecap someone from the Sinaloa cartel? Think he messed up though. Got some other dude.” 

“Jesus. _Good._ ” Mickey tosses the phone back in the box. He can’t really imagine Iggy kneecapping anyone. “Idiot’s going to get himself beheaded with a chainsaw.” 

“You’re one to talk, bro. Didn’t you roll on a cartel?” 

Mickey gives him the finger, picks his can of beer up from where it’s made a ring on the top of Michel Foucault’s _The History of Sexuality_. He hesitates. “You didn’t tell dad about this deal did you?”

Colin looks offended. “Told you I’d keep it quiet. Not all of us are snitches bro.” He takes a blunt out of his pocket. “So you really cutting him off now? We all got to choose between you two?”

“Fuck you, man. I just want to marry my boyfriend.” Mickey looks away, takes a sip of beer, vulnerable suddenly. He glances down at the box again. “So we just gotta find gullible assholes who don’t know shit about technology.”

“Or we could sell them for parts?” Colin lights up. Breathes in deep. 

“Yeah great idea, Steve Jobs. That’d get us fuck all.” 

“Want some?” 

“Nah, man. Parole.”

Colin gazes up at him, disbelievingly. “Damn bro. Knew you'd gone Northside but didn’t realize you’d turned into a pussy.”

Mickey swears under his breath. He takes a hit, staring hard at Colin as he does, and his brother’s mouth splits into a grin.

*

His hands are empty. He’s in the bathroom, near the sink, his feet bare on the pale tiles. Ian’s fucked him in here, against that sink. In that shower. Ian’s come up behind him in here as Mickey’s taken a piss. Ian’s tended to his wounds in here. Washed his hair. Sucked his dick. But Mickey’s hands are empty. It’s not there. It’s not in his hands. It was supposed to be nestled in his palms right? Last thing he knew, it was cold and shivery, like it was sick, like it wasn’t doing OK, and Mickey needed to, he needed to take care of it. Did he forget to take care of it? Where the fuck is it?

The soft thing. The thing with the heartbeat. 

_Oh fuck. Oh fuck. I lost it. I lost it. I lost it._

Maybe if he waits it’ll come to him. It’ll come back. Or maybe he needs to find it, search it out. Or maybe it’s gone. It could be gone forever. What if his dad has it? What if Terry’s hurting it? Or it’s just on its own at the Milkovich house with no one to feed it or tell it it’s worth anything? Mickey was supposed to take care of it. And it was sick. It was sad. He pushes open the door, checks his and Ian’s room, and then down the corridor, stretching out in front of him, to Ian’s old room. With Liam. And Carl. And Lip once before Mickey stayed there. Maybe Mickey’s not allowed it. It’s too soft for him, too small, too delicate.

It’s quiet. 

Ian’s sitting on his old bed. He’s upright, cradling something against his chest. He’s gentle. 

_Shhhh_

Mickey goes to him. 

_I got it, Mick, I got it._

_You looking after it for me?_

Ian’s smiling at him. 

_We’re gonna let it go._

_What._

_We’re going to let it fly._

_Ian. Wait._

_Mickey._

_Wait. Wait._

_Mickey._

_It’s not safe. It’s not strong enough, yet. Ian you gotta… You can’t. Stop._

He reaches out for it, and Ian’s hands are unfolding. But there’s something leaden in Mickey’s chest, something weighing him down, and his arms are sloppy, like he’s all made out of soup, and he’s not sure he’s allowed it, not sure he wants to see what it is, can’t see what it is, and Ian’s going to let it go. 

_Gallagher._

_“Stop.”_

His sweat has soaked through Byron’s Egyptian cotton sheets. His hand gropes mindlessly behind him at the empty space on the bed. It’s too early. But Mickey doesn’t want to go back to sleep because, and this makes him feel like a pussy, he’s afraid of his dreams. 

*

The shirt smells like Ian. Mickey wonders if he wore it, or if he slept with it nearby, or if it was just the way Ian carried it over close to his body. He puts it on. 

He lights a smoke, nervous about this other guy. He knows himself well enough to know he’s probably going to hit him. Probably going to risk fucking up his probation so he’ll need to make a speedy exit, cut ties with the Northside and this fancy ass place. Byron’s changed his outfit three times already, buzzing with excitement about the band. Mickey uses his distraction as an opportunity to pack his shit up into one of Byron’s hundred dollar pillowcases. He considers adding one of them creepy poodle figurines to the bag, but goes for the tiny black typewriter instead. Might not sell but pretty cool. 

He tosses the pillowcase out of the apartment while Byron’s in the bathroom, then bangs on the door.

“Hey, gonna go meet my cousin. See you at the place?”

“Yeah,” Byron calls over the running taps, “Mickey, honey, your cousin’s not on the guest list though so—”

“Sure. I don’t think she gives a shit about Bacterial Man Mouth anyway.” 

Mickey’s met with stony silence from the other side of the door which he takes as his cue to leave. Wishes he could check his hair again but figures he can find a shop window later. 

*

When Mickey does see the other guy—or well, hears him—he feels calm. Maybe Mickey’s not going to whale on him after all. He leans back on a wooden pillar, smiling and waiting for Ian to turn around.

When he turns, Ian’s smiling too, like he knows this whole thing is over.

“The fuck is that?”

And Mickey’s kind of impressed, kind of charmed, kind of exasperated, by the way Ian plays along, keeps the game rolling. 

Mickey sips his beer and raises his eyebrows. 

* 

They come in and out of each others’ orbits. Mickey gets more beer, zones out the music, asks Byron’s friend with the beard if he wants a new iPhone for two hundred bucks, traces Ian with his eyes. The bruise on his face has faded but it’s still there. 

He’s back at the bar next to Cole when Ian jumps Byron. He turns to see Ian taking on three hipsters. 

“Look at my man. Don’t take no shit.” 

“Calm down.” 

Mickey watches Ian elbow the bearded guy in the face and floor him like Anderson Silva or some other fucking MMA fighter. _Damn, Gallagher._

“I’m gonna do gymnastics on that dick tonight.” Mickey closes his eyes. Breathes in. “I’m gonna Simone Biles that dick, you know what I’m saying?” 

Mickey punches Cole. He falls fast and Mickey almost feels bad about it. But it felt good. And he registers, almost clinically, that it turns out he was right about what was going to go down tonight. He puts his beer on the bar and goes to get Gallagher back. This shit’s been going on for too long. 

*

Ian’s mouth is hot. His tongue is hard, purposeful, filling Mickey’s mouth. And Ian’s hands are either side of Mickey’s face, enclosing him, enveloping him, claiming him. And Mickey wants to be claimed, to be held, to be consumed. Like this. Just like this. And in all the other ways Ian wants to take him. For the rest of his life. Because Mickey’s allowed it. He’s _allowed_ it. He’s allowed it. 

*

“ _Damn_ , Gallagher.” Mickey swipes under his bottom lip, catching his breath. Ian’s face is half lit by the moonlight or maybe the dim floodlight above them, and he’s a yard too far away, but Mickey can see the rapid rise and fall of his chest, can hear it too, as Ian leans back against the chicken wire fence. “You took on three of them with a fucked up leg?” 

Ian chuckles, low. It’s quiet against the fading sound of sirens and Mickey moves towards him, closes the distance between the pair of them. 

“What else can you do with a broken bone?” Ian glances away for a moment and Mickey catches his attention again, his voice soft. “Huh?” 

Ian looks down at him, watches as Mickey licks his lips. He runs his hand through Mickey’s hair and kisses him again. It’s soft. Too soft. And Mickey knows what’s coming. Knows Ian’s going to grip his hips and manhandle him against the fence before it happens, shove him, rough, into the metal. 

Ian’s mouth is hot next to is ear. “You want me to fuck you here, Mick?” 

Mickey grins. His body’s buzzing from being pushed about. Ian’s voice rumbling through him. No one’s going to see them here. It’s a basketball court and it’s the middle of the night and Mickey’s not had anything in ass for almost a week.

“The fuck you think, tough guy?” 

Ian clamps one of Mickey’s hands against the fence, leans down to lick Mickey’s neck, kiss it, pull the flesh between his teeth. It’s soft again, and it drives a shiver all the way down to Mickey’s feet, and all he can do is draw in a shaky breath, wrap his mouth around a silent _fuck_ , and drag his teeth over his bottom lip.

“So,” Ian’s voice is low. “Byron, huh?”

Mickey smiles again as Ian’s grip around his wrist tightens, as Ian drags his arm out so it stings. Ian’s got a lot of grip strength. That hand has countless times pulled Mickey off just how he likes it. Those fingers have probed and scissored into his ass, have curled relentlessly, brushing against and then slamming into his prostate, when Mickey’s been so far gone he was certain he couldn’t take anymore.

“The fuck was that about?” Ian continues, gruff, shoving Mickey’s body deeper against the fence. 

Mickey turns his head to show his grin to Ian. He licks along the side of his open mouth with his tongue. Ian grunts, his eyes piercing Mickey’s, grip getting impossibly tighter on his wrist.

“Didn’t like that huh?” Mickey teases, and it’s brazen enough to get Ian to move his hand to the nape of Mickey’s neck, shuck them both back and bend Mickey over, push his hardening dick into the cleft of Mickey’s ass through their clothes. 

“Fuck.” Mickey breathes. He’s lost his cockiness now, lost the grin on his face, just wants to get rammed, just needs Ian inside him. “Ian, please.” 

“Please what?” 

Mickey bites his lip again. He can see his own breath in the cold air. “Fuck me.” 

Ian lets go of him and Mickey can hear the thwack and swish of his belt, the unzipping of his fly. He knows Ian’s taken his jacket and shirt off too, can feel his bare chest through his own clothes as his jeans and boxers get shucked roughly down to his thighs. 

Ian’s fingers run up his ass crack, trace lightly over his hole, and Mickey tenses, his fingers close around the chicken wire so the metal digs into his palms. 

“Ian,” he says again, voice embarrassingly already a wreck, and Ian hums, grips around the nape of Mickey’s neck again, the place which makes Mickey so pliant, so easily controlled. 

“You let him fuck you?” Ian asks, fingers closing around him, digging in, and Mickey wonders if he’ll leave bruises, wants Ian to leave bruises on his body. The diminishing part of his mind that’s not been completely overruled by his lizard brain, by _fuck me fuck me fuck me_ and _fuck me up, take me, claim me, make me your bitch_ , wonders what he needs to do or say to get Ian to mark him like that, to leave him feeling it. 

“No,” he breathes instead, simple and honest. “Only want your cock.” 

“Good,” Ian says. Almost groans it. And Mickey can imagine his eyes darkening, even if he can’t see them from here. Can just see the fence, the ground, and the insides of his own eyelids when he squeezes them shut, as Ian’s fingers brush against his hole again, and one of them pushes in, dry.

Ian takes it out again, and Mickey hears a bottle popping open.

“You brought fucking lube?” he asks, turning his head again to see Ian hide a smile before pushing Mickey down by the neck again. “Knew you were getting me back huh, BDE?”

Ian breathes out a laugh. He grips into Mickey again, his voice coming out sober, honest, a tiny bit vulnerable. “Wasn’t leaving without you.” 

Mickey swallows. The finger pushes in again, slick. 

“Ian. Just…” He lets out a shaky breath. “That’s enough.” 

Ian’s finger pauses. 

Mickey finds his voice again. “Just your cock. I want—” 

Ian pulls his finger out, his grip loosens, and Mickey’s empty, and Ian’s quiet, and the air is cold. 

“You sure?” Ian says eventually, his voice gentle, his palm smooth and soft against Mickey’s neck. “It’ll hurt.”

Mickey nods, his mouth dry. “I want to feel you.” And it’s almost too honest. “I want to be feeling you all week.” 

“I’ll be fucking you all week,” Ian murmurs. But his hand starts to grip again, and the tip of his cock rubs against Mickey’s hole. Mickey can feel Ian’s body shake. His skin glistening with sweat. Mickey wishes he could see him. Knows what he looks like when he’s like this. Baked on testosterone and oxytocin. Eyes wide and dark, mouth open, pupils blown. 

“I need to use a rubber?” 

Part of Mickey defogs. A jolt of guilt. He works his jaw. 

“No.” 

Ian lets out a held breath, leans down and kisses Mickey on the back of the neck. Then he pushes in, and Mickey’s instantly there again. In that space. The space where he can’t do anything but be Ian’s. It’s tight and it hurts. It hurts so fucking good. 

“OK?” Ian asks. His voice is strained but soft. 

Mickey can’t speak for a moment. Ian grips into his sides as he shivers. 

Mickey breathes. Nods. “Fuck. Yeah. Move.” He opens his eyes. “Ian, please.” 

And Ian moves. Pulls back and pushes in again. Harder. Much harder. They both moan. And there’s a moment before Ian picks it up again, keeps the thrusts coming, each faster and harder than the last. 

“You happy now?” Ian grunts, between thrusts. 

Mickey doesn’t know what he means because _obviously_. Mickey’s happy. If this is what happiness is. And Mickey’s pretty sure that’s the definition of happiness in the dictionary right? Getting rammed hard and deep by the man you love outside in the middle of the night in Chicago in the fall. 

“Now we’re getting married?” Ian adds, his voice shredded, his thrusts deep. 

And fuck. Mickey’s whole body tingles with warmth despite the wind, his foggy breath, the indent of the metal in his palms. Some sound comes from him like a whine. His body quivering. His cock heavy and leaking against his stomach. He wants to tug at it but he can’t let go. 

“Mickey.” Ian prompts, reading his mind and reaching round, finding Mickey’s cock, swiping against the wetness at the tip. His voice is breathy, husky. “You’re going to be my husband.” 

Mickey keels, whines again. Ian grips. Filling him up. Roughly pushing his hot mouth into Mickey’s shoulder.

“Mick,” Ian says again, running his hand up and down Mickey’s cock, slamming down into his ass, asking again, “You happy now?” 

Mickey’s a quivering, shaking mess and he can’t get his mouth to form words. Fuck knows how he’d reply anyway. Ian’s other hand is tight around his neck, and it pulls him up so his back arches, so the angle of Ian’s cock changes, jolting his prostate, making him whine again. And Ian joins him in it, before he stutters a bit. 

“Fuck.” Ian says, shifting once more, body leaning into Mickey’s. 

“OK?” Mickey finds his voice, feels the sheen of sweat on Ian soaking through his shirt. The shirt Ian gave him yesterday morning, and Mickey’s nose tingles with that thought, his eyes get glassy. 

“Yeah.” Ian peels himself off. He’s only pulsing into Mickey lightly now, pushing himself upright. “My leg.” 

“S’OK.” Mickey breathes, swallowing, loosening his hands from the fence, shifting away from Ian’s cock, and turning around to support him. He pushes his face into Ian’s chest, grips his hand around Ian’s cock, and breathes him in. He smells indescribable. Like sex. Like getting it hard and deep. Like coming home.

Mickey twists and pulls at his cock, kisses and licks his bare skin, his hard body, the top of his pec, his clavicle, his strong neck. Ian lets him. Holds on to him. 

“Mickey.” 

Mickey looks up and sees his eyes are closed, his cheeks flushed, his hair shining copper in the low light, dripping with sweat. Mickey runs his hand up Ian’s head, over his ear, to his hair. It’s soft and wet. Mickey fucks it up even more, grips into it and draws Ian’s head back, exposes his pale neck. 

“Mick.” Ian huffs a laugh, opening his eyes. 

“Look at you.” 

Ian’s eyes flit to his own. Mickey’s other hand is tight and unmoving around Ian’s cock. They stare at each other.

“Yeah.” Mickey grips a little harder at Ian’s hair. Swallows. The tingle in his nose is there again. “I’m happy now.” 

Ian keeps looking down at him. He smiles, slow and wide. Reaching up, he unclasps Mickey’s hand from his hair, from his cock. He turns Mickey round, rough again, lines his cock up against Mickey’s ass. He pushes in again. His hand rolls up Mickey’s back, the wet shirt, up to his face, caresses around his jaw, and over Mickey’s lips, before it finds its grip on Mickey’s neck again. He jerks back and forward, jams his body into Mickey’s, finding a rhythm again. 

“Mick.” Mickey hears him breathe, quiet and sweet, as he picks up pace. “I’m really fucking happy too.” 

*

Ian sits down on the edge of their bed, blinks up at Mickey as he takes his crutches off him. Leans them against the wall. 

“Jesus. Your brother kinda overshadowed us getting hitched with his Milwaukee shit, huh?” 

“We’ll tell them tomorrow.” Ian pulls Mickey to him, so he’s in between Ian’s legs. “You want your promise ring back?”

Mickey looks away, tries to school his smile so it doesn’t get too big. “Fuck you for that by the way.” 

“Uhuh.” Ian’s smiling too.

Mickey takes his wallet out of his back pocket, flips it open, and pulls out a wad of bills. Ian stares at Mickey’s hand outstretched towards him. 

“Fuck is that?” 

“Told you I was going to pay.” When Ian doesn’t take it he leans over to put it down on the bedside table. 

Ian looks at the cash like he’s mad at it, pulls Mickey back towards him. Mickey breathes in through his teeth.

Ian clicks his tongue against the top of his mouth. “You didn’t have to do that, Mickey.”

Mickey rolls his eyes. “I wanted to.” 

It’s quiet, and Mickey has to glance away from Ian’s stare, rub his nose. 

“You know,” Mickey begins, catching Ian’s eyes again. “You didn’t have to ask me to marry you to get me back. I’m always gonna come back.”

Ian watches him, his gaze softening, the tops of his cheeks reddening. 

“That’s the problem Mickey.” Ian sighs. “I don’t always deserve it.”

“Ian. That’s bullshit.” 

Mickey reaches out. He cups Ian’s jaw, runs a thumb around his lips, opening his mouth. Mickey leans down to kiss it again, to taste him. It’s soft and wet and warm. 

Their lips unhook and Mickey nuzzles into his cheek, kisses the skin under Ian’s ear. His voice comes out low and thick. 

“You always deserve it.”

**Author's Note:**

> OK, so still gonna write one more, woops. Just for the record I think Mickey is an asshole to Byron and I love Cole. 
> 
> Thanks guys for reading this. 
> 
> Black Lives Matter  
> bail project  
> for UK people like me  
> [UFF campaign](https://uffcampaign.org/)


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